


Bedside Manner

by Headline (Newsy)



Series: Headline's Chronicles [1]
Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Original Character(s), POV Original Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-06
Updated: 2013-05-06
Packaged: 2017-12-10 15:18:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/787504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Newsy/pseuds/Headline
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Injured civilian meets egotistical warrior, with a generous side serving of crusty medic. Snark ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bedside Manner

“Another one.”  Ratchet’s calm voice and simple words were a sharp contrast to the worry in his optics.  He applied a quick patch to yet another leak in my fuel system, caused by yet another piece of shrapnel.

Still fully conscious despite the apparent extent of my wounds, I fought to stop myself from writhing off the surgical table in pain.  Almost as soon as he had finished patching the previous leak, Ratchet noticed and moved to fix still another.

The chief medical officer, finding his hands full, called for help.  “Wheeljack – multiple fuel line replacement, priority yellow,” he called to his junior officer, who had been busy treating less critical injuries to the oft-injured Ironhide.  The engineer began to assemble parts and surgical tools for what would apparently be a major operation on me.

Ratchet walked around the surgical table and leaned slightly over my head.  “How’s your pain level?” he asked.

“Make it stop,” I whined.

“That,” Ratchet said, “is exactly what we’re gonna do.  You might have noticed I’m not making much lasting progress repairing your fuel lines… so Wheeljack and I are going to replace them.  We’ll put you in protective stasis, then out with the bad lines, in with the good lines – and good as new.”

I shuddered and squirmed a little at the thought of extensive repairs.  Bad idea.  I moved wrong, and a fresh wave of pain struck me.  “Make it _stop,”_ I begged again.

“Doing the best we can, ladybot.”  Ratchet allowed me to grab his hand and squeeze.  Passing the pain on works surprisingly well as extremely temporary pain relief.

Wheeljack laid out the surgical tools and, under Ratchet’s direction, prepared some sedating fumes to ease my transition out of consciousness.  Now and then, with his free hand, Ratchet checked his patchwork to make sure it remained stable.

A loudspeaker mounted near the ceiling began to produce static, and Optimus Prime’s voice emanated from it.  “Medical, two coming in priority red!” he shouted, sounding more outwardly worried than usual.

“Slag,” Ratchet said, his optics intensifying.  Wheeljack ran to prepare another operating table.  “Headline, we’re gonna have to leave you for a little bit to do triage,” he informed me, continuing with an explanation when I tried to protest.  “I know you’re in pain, lady femme, but you’re more stable than the ones we’ve got coming in.”

The double doors at the front of the medbay swung wildly open.  Huffer entered in vehicle mode, towing the battered and scorched Jazz.  Next came Prime himself, walking briskly and carrying the limp frame of Bumblebee.  No wonder he’d sounded greatly concerned; the two critical patients were both in his inner circle of trusted officers.

As the wounded came in, one repaired mech made for the exit.  Ratchet grabbed Sunstreaker’s arm as he walked past.  “You!” he said to the freshly polished yellow mech.  “Watch her.  She destabilizes, you call me.”

“But I’m not a –” Sunstreaker started to say.

“Watch her,” Ratchet repeated.  “You don’t have to be a doctor to have _optics.”_

Sunstreaker dutifully took up his new post next to me.  For several breems, he said nothing and watched the flurry over the critically injured officers.  He glanced down toward me when I winced in response to another wave of pain.

“Hi there,” he said blandly.

“Hi,” I responded just as blandly.

“You got a name?”

“Headline.”

“Charmed,” Sunstreaker said, looking decidedly un-charmed.  “Silly name for a warrior.”

“I’m not a warrior.  I’m a reporter.”

“That explains it.  Civilian names are silly.”  Sunstreaker straightened up slightly.  “I think you know who I am.”

“Everyone does.”

“Exactly.”

“We love you in the press corps.”

“Well, you should.”  Sunstreaker stuck his chest out a little bit more.

“When we’re stressed out… we play darts with your picture.”

Sunstreaker glared darkly.  Another half-breem passed before either of us said another word.  Across the medbay, Wheeljack stabilized and began repairing Jazz while Ratchet frantically worked to do the same with Bumblebee.

“What happened to you?” Sunstreaker asked in a tone that screamed _token question._

“Something hit right in front of me… threw a bunch of shrapnel into my midsection… perforated my fuel lines.”

 “So?  Shrapnel wounds aren’t so bad.”

“You ever had perforated fuel lines?  They happen to _hurt,”_ I said indignantly.

“I’ve had perforated _everything.”_   Sunstreaker polished a spot on his arm with his hand.  “None of it shows, of course.”

We went silent again.  Wheeljack joined Ratchet to tend to Bumblebee, signaling either a turn for the better in Jazz’s condition or a turn for the worse in Bumblebee’s.

And then the pain returned.  Sharp, acute pain.  One of the patches must have failed.  Trying not to distract the medics from their work, I stifled a scream and instead flailed in the general direction of the disinterested Sunstreaker.

“What?” he finally snapped, looking annoyed.

“I think I – one of the – I’m losing fluids,” I managed to say between stabs of pain.

“Is that bad?”

Yes.  Yes, it was.  I screamed to drive home the point.

“All right, fine,” Sunstreaker grumbled.  He turned his head slightly and raised his voice.  “Ratchet!  The civvie broke!”

Ratchet cursed again and ran toward me.  “Easy, Headline,” he said upon glimpsing the injury.  “Just one of the patches.  We’ll re-seal it and you’ll stabilize.  In fact,” he said with a smirk, “Sunstreaker, _you_ could do this.”

“Slag, no!” we said in unison.

“I’m _not_ getting up to my elbows in oil,” Sunstreaker argued.

“I told him about the dart board!” I wailed, genuinely worried.

Ratchet swung open a cabinet, revealing a picture of Sunstreaker’s face that evidenced numerous punctures.  “You mean the _other_ dart board,” he said.  Sunstreaker glared again.  “It’s an easy repair,” Ratchet continued, handing Sunstreaker a small surgical tool.  “Use this around the edges of the patch to reinforce the seal.  And watch her hydraulic pressure.  If it drops below this line –” he pointed to a spot on a gauge – “call me.”

“But – but – but –” Sunstreaker and I both stammered.

“Bumblebee’s critical.  I have to get back to him,” Ratchet said to silence us.  He leaned toward me and spoke quietly enough to keep Sunstreaker from hearing.  “The more you relax, the more he’ll relax.  All right?”  I nodded.  “Good.  Hang tight, lady femme.”

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Sunstreaker complained, holding the surgical instrument as far away from his body as he could and making several stops and starts toward the failed patch.

 _“Just do it!”_ I yelled.

Finally, with a few nervous movements, Sunstreaker reinforced the patch.  The pain subsided to a dull ache, and I relaxed as the monitors stabilized.  “There,” he said, sounding rather pleased with himself as usual.  “Not so bad.”

“Not so bad,” I agreed.

Again we were both quiet amid the beeping of monitors and the noise of Ratchet’s ongoing work.  After a few moments, Sunstreaker broke the silence with an indignant comment.  “You play darts with my picture?”

“Slamdance can’t stand you.”

“Really.”  Sunstreaker pondered this bit of knowledge.  “I can’t imagine why not.”

“I can’t imagine either,” I scoffed.

“Seriously.  Why not?”

“We did one other thing with your picture.”

“Frame it?”

“Stick it in the dictionary next to _vain.”_

Sunstreaker folded his arms over his chest and turned away to watch Ratchet work on Bumblebee.  The chief medical officer’s demeanor had become less frantic, and Wheeljack had returned to working on Jazz, who was now alert and talking.  “Looks like the guys’ll be all right,” I observed.

“Yeah.  Great,” Sunstreaker said most unconvincingly, just before an alarm began to sound.  “What’s that?”

The alarm was coming from my hydraulic pressure monitor.

I gasped at the return of the stabbing pain, now worse than before.  Intense pain in two spots… three… four.  Fluid drained out of my fuel system again, nearly as fast as when I arrived in the medbay as a priority red case.  The pain became constant and severe.  Unable to articulate anything in words, I screamed again, louder than before.

“Hey – hey, relax,” Sunstreaker said, grabbing the tool he’d used before and looking for a place to start.  But there were _too many_ places.  “Just – I’ll get Ratchet.”

“Ratchet’s already here,” Ratchet announced, practically shoving Sunstreaker out of the way.  “Wheeljack!  Priority red!”

Sunstreaker hovered uncomfortably as Wheeljack collected the last of the needed parts and Ratchet worked to stabilize me.  “Make yourself useful,” Ratchet said.  “There’s some sedative prepped.  Give it to her.  It’ll calm her down enough for protective stasis.”

“How do I –”

“Put the damn mask on her face!” Ratchet shouted.

With surprising care, Sunstreaker placed the mask over my facial intakes and connected the prepared dose of sedating fumes.  The mixture took immediate and welcome effect…

***

“Ratchet!  I think she’s awake.”

“What the… huh?” I muttered, willing my optics to work.  The swirl of colors gave way to the outline of a mech sitting by my recovery table.

“Yep,” the mech said.  “She’s awake.”

“Good,” said a voice I recognized as Ratchet.  My optics at last cleared, and I recognized the other mech as Sunstreaker – who should have been long gone.  “Feeling all right, ladybot?” Ratchet asked, looking over the now closed area of the fuel line replacement.

“Mostly,” I said, struggling to sit up and shake off the grogginess.  “Sore, though.”

Ratchet disconnected all but one of the monitors.  “You will be for a bit.  Fuel lines should be working just fine now, but just in case, I want to keep you here for the next couple orns for observation.”

“M’kay,” I sleepily muttered, lying down again.

“And we’ll start the cosmetic restoration tomorrow,” Ratchet added.  “Now – you get a rest cycle in.  You don’t sound too far from it anyway.”

“Ratch?” I mumbled.  “Thanks.  For everything.”

“It’s my job, lady femme.”

Ratchet continued his rounds with a stop next to Bumblebee.  The little yellow mech was on a recovery table, in protective stasis; Jazz was still clearly damaged but on his feet, keeping watch over his more severely injured friend.  Wheeljack was busy cleaning up; Ironhide was gone, apparently released with as clean a bill of health as he could ever get.

Sunstreaker, meanwhile, remained where he was – next to me.  And that made me both nervous and curious.  “What’re you still doing here?” I asked him.

“If you die, I’ll be in trouble,” he said.  “And _that_ means I have to watch you.”

“It’s almost like you _care.”_

“Almost.”  Sunstreaker leaned a little closer to me.  “Rest cycle, civvie.  Doctor’s orders.”

“Sunstreaker… thanks.”

“For what?”

“Well… you _did_ help.”

“Don’t let it get around.”

“Okay.  Promise,” I sighed, signaling my frame to go into rest cycle.

“Um… get well, all right, civvie?”

“Yeah.”

As my optics darkened and my aurals faded, Sunstreaker probably thought I didn’t hear his parting words.  “Heh… darts.”

Maybe, I thought as I faded into rest cycle, I’d skip the next newsroom dart game.

**Author's Note:**

> Original character Headline created by the author. Other characters, as well as Transformers itself, are the property of Hasbro and are used for non-profitable entertainment purposes only.


End file.
